Four rolls of parchment and three broken quills
by WinglessWriter
Summary: Or, Hermione breaks down and Harry knows the truth. One-shot. Set in Half-Blood Prince.


A/N: I've been binge-watching the HP movies (and binge-reading the novels, of course), and have been craving some H/Hr interaction. This wasn't originally supposed to be platonic, but that's the way my muse was swinging.

Takes place in the Half-Blood Prince.

(May be a bit OOC, but you be the judge. I feel that while Hermione is a very devoted scholar, she occasional cracks under the mounting pressure. A certain oblivious ginger and a certain snogaholic ditz may not help this)

Harmony if you **really** try hard. Sorry, fellow shippers.

All characters, settings, and titles belong to JK Rowling and respective owners.

The common room is unusually quiet that evening.

Beyond the thick castle windows, a miserable mixture of snow and sleet pours from the dark skies and makes the night seem even colder. A cheerful fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the worn furniture and the room's two occupants.

On the sofa before the fireplace sits Harry Potter, flipping idly through a very battered Potions textbook. Each page is covered in meticulous notes and edits to the book's original text. This textbook is the secret to his success in Professor Slughorn's class, but also a source of mystery to the young wizard. Scrawled on the inside cover was _Property of the Half-Blood Prince_ , the only source of ownership to be found. Thus far, he had no clue whom this "half-blood prince" could be.

Sighing in defeat, Harry lets the book slide off his lap and onto a sofa cushion as he tips his head back and runs a hand through his short black hair. While enjoying a stretch, he lets his head tip to the side and finds himself gazing to the other person in the common room: Hermione Granger.

Holed up in her usual corner, the witch is curled over a long strip of parchment and writing feverishly. On the floor and the desk are stacks of textbooks, reference books, and fresh parchment.

None of this was remarkable; Hermione was hailed as the brightest witch (or even, magical person) of the class and was well-known for her thorough study habits and brilliant mind. Her sharp thinking and learned experience had saved the lives of Harry, Ron, and other friends several times.

What was out of the ordinary, however, was how Hermione was writing.

As one that took pride in one's academics, Hermione Granger always wrote with a careful, practiced script and a light touch. Ink was rarely spilled on her papers and quills were never scratched with too much force.

The scene witnessed before Harry was nothing like the aforementioned.

Fiercely gripping the quill in a shaky fist, Hermione stabs into the parchment with a force that makes Harry's eyes widen. Recklessly is the writing instrument dragged across the page, splattering it with ink and even blotting out whole sentences. Sitting taller on the sofa, Harry Potter peers over and sees the discarded parchment rolls at her feet, all having suffered similar fates of carnage. Among the wounded papers are two broken quills. Becoming alarmed, Harry snaps his gaze to his friend's face.

Eyes wild and hair even crazier than the norm, Hermione bits her lip hard enough to draw blood and grips the edge of the desk with white knuckles. When dipping her quill into the ink, the tremors in her hand prove too erratic and cause the pot to tip its contents onto her parchment and bath the first half of the essay in black liquid. With a small cry, Hermione quickly rights the container, but the damage is done. Blinking rapidly, she tears the paper from the desk and casts it to the floor. Harry has half a mind to ask Hermione if she knew a spell to remove the ink stain, but he thinks it best to leave his friend be for the moment.

As Hermione begins tearing into a new roll of parchment, Harry picked up his textbook and attempts to continue his detective work. After several minutes of concentrating, any sleuthing proves useless with the tension that radiates from the studious witch in the corner. Even the mirthful fire can't cast away the nervous energy that cloaked the room.

Returning his eyes to the used book, Harry can only pretend to read as he waits for _something_ to happen. Mere seconds later, that waiting is rewarded.

Only a few sentences into her new essay (the fourth attempt, Harry mentally calculates), Hermione's poor quill snaps cleanly in two, splattering the desk, an open book, and the witch in a thin shower of ink. Letting the quill fragments slip from her ink-stained fingers, she slowly lifts her hands to her face and lets out a muffled sob.

All but throwing the Potions book aside, Harry jumps to his feet. "Hermione!"

Ripping her face from her hands, the young women in question stares at shock and then alarm at the presence of her friend. Her eyes are watery and Harry can see the beginnings of tear tracks on her cheeks. "Oh! H-Harry! Oh, what a surprise…"

Laughing weakly, Hermione scrambles from her chair, knocking over a stack of library books, and starts to creep backwards.

"Silly me, broke a quill…don't make them like they used to, do they? I'll, um, just fetch a new one, and…"

Spinning around, Hermione all but darts for the girls' stairs. Harry rushes around the sofa and grabs her wrist, effectively stopping her in her tracks. Stiffening, the girl refuses to turn her head and tugs against her friend's grip. "Harry", she said, voice wavering but clear, "please let me go."

"No." Tightening his fingers into a firm and careful hold, the wizard softens his voice. "Hermione, tell me what's wrong."

While straightening her shoulders, Harry feels Hermione's pulse quicken and her tremors increase. He suppresses a wave of anger and concern. "Please, Hermione." Sliding his hand from her wrist to her own hand, Harry squeezes cautiously. "Tell me."

Trembling even more so, she attempts, "I just need a ne-new quill for my…my…"

Never finishing her sentence, Harry watches as dam wall cracks and Hermione dissolves finally into tears.

Head dropping in surrender, the girl's shoulders begin to shudder as sob after sob rips its way out of her throat. Even in her weeping she turns away from Harry, apologies finding their way through the tears. "I'm sorry, Harry…s-sorry…a quill is a s-silly thing to blubber o-over…"

Brows drawn together in new concern, Harry pulls Hermione toward him and holds her in a steady embrace. As her crying increases, Harry simply tightens his grip and lets the tears soak into his uniform jumper. Hermione grips the wizard as though she's afraid he'll leave her, so he stands patiently and lets the weeping run its course.

As the sobs subside and are replaced by sniffling and the occasional shudder, Harry moves one hand to gently stroke the witch's unruly hair. Her grip lessens from one of desperation to one of comfort and she lets out an unsteady sigh.

"If you tell me that was about a bloody quill, I'll have a hard time believing you", says Harry quietly.

Hermione lets out a watery laugh and breaks away from the embrace, messily wiping at her face. Harry wordlessly produces a handkerchief and gingerly cleans the tears and snot away. She closes her eyes and allows the kind ministrations to continue until her face has lost its evidence of a breakdown.

"Now", Harry says with authority as he magically disposed of the handkerchief and placed two stable hands on Hermione's shoulders, "you are going to tell me what's wrong." As the girl's gaze flickers down with uncertainty, the wizard stubbornly peers into her puffy eyes until she meets his gaze. Smiling encouragingly, he adds: "It's the least you can do after soaking my jumper."

This statement brings a small grin to Hermione's face as she reaches her fingertips to touch the damp fabric. "Sorry, Harry…"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Trust me, Hargid is a much worse. But now I want to hear about _you_ ". He squeezes her shoulders for emphasis.

Chewing on her lip in thought, the witch finally nods and motions to the sofa. "Shall we sit?"

Hermione leads Harry over to the sofa and sits on the edge of the cushion, wringing her hands on her lap. He sits next to her but doesn't invite her for another embrace; he simply waits, studying her anxious expression.

A few minutes later she lets out a humorous laugh and presses her hands tensely into the cushion's fabric. "The only thing I can think is what a _fool_ I am…" Shaking her head as if to scold herself, she repeats "What a _fool_ I am…what a fool…"

"Hermione," Harry interrupts, disbelief clear in his voice, "you are the most brilliant person I have ever known. You are not a fool."

"But I am!" She exclaims, turning to met Harry's gaze with a neurotic look in her eyes. "I am the biggest fool to like- to actually have feelings for…"

Growling in frustration, Hermione throws herself back the sofa and rubs her fists into her eyes. Leaning back more carefully, Harry removes her hands from her face and grasps them to his own. '"Hermione," he whispers. "It's okay; I know."

Understanding, fear, shame, and realization flash like candlelight in Hermione's eyes until a true smile splits across her face and fills her eyes with warmth. Abandoning words, Hermione suddenly launches herself across the sofa and tackles Harry in a fierce hug.

Blinking in surprise, the wizard chuckles before returning the hug just as affectionately as it was given to him.

Her voice muffled, Hermione whispers; "Thank you, Harry…thank you."

Looking down at his best friend as she embraces him tightly, Harry feels his chest swell with fondness. _This is what Voldemort will never know,_ Harry thought as Hermione closes her eyes and settles herself into Harry's form. _Genuine love._

Quietly whispering a spell to dim the fire, Harry readjusted his grip around Hermione and relaxed into the beckoning call of slumber.

Tomorrow Hermione would have to bear another day of agony as Ron spent another day snogging his beloved Lavender. Tomorrow Hermione would have to explain why her Charms essay was incomplete. Tomorrow would be another uphill battle for a brilliant, troubled witch.

But in this late hour, as the great clock ticked steadily in the background, Hermione could sleep contently with the knowledge that someone did, in fact, love her very much.

I recognize that Prof. McGonagall would have gone bat-bleeding-crazy if a boy and a girl were found getting cozy in the common room, but I have elected to ignore this because

A) She's pretty chill with the trio, mostly, and

B) This is my story

Also, Ron never finds out because [insert personal explanation of choice here]

I really, really, really like Emma Watson. And Daniel Radcliffe. They have chemistry onscreen, you can't deny it…

Please review with comments, criticisms, etc.!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!


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